


Neal Caffrey and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good… Maybe Not So Very Bad Day

by rainey13



Category: White Collar
Genre: Birthday, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainey13/pseuds/rainey13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal's day is not going well. But then, maybe things get better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neal Caffrey and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good… Maybe Not So Very Bad Day

_Friday_

_7:11AM_

_Bzzz… bzzzzt… bzzzz… bzzzzzt…_

It was almost like a mosquito circling his head, and Neal groggily tried to swat it away. But the buzzing continued, he seemed to be having trouble moving his arm, and gradually, reluctantly, he opened his eyes. He was in bed, totally cocooned in the sheet and comforter, which felt like they had been tied like bindings around his arms and legs.

_Must have been one hell of a dream…_

He finally recognized the buzzing as coming from his alarm clock, though when he turned his head to the side – pretty much the only body part he could move at the moment - the clock was missing from the bedside table. And the buzzing seemed to be coming from  _behind_  the table, and lower.

Like from the floor.

_Yup, one hell of a dream._

Fortunately, he'd spent a good deal of time figuring how to get out of tight situations, and with some judicious wiggling, possibly combined with a bit of squirming, he eventually got one arm free. From there the rest of him was soon released from the soft imprisonment and he leaned over the side of the mattress, stretching for the clock. He almost dropped it once, managed to grab it again, and finally managed to set the timepiece back where it belonged.

_Wait… 7:12?_

That meant the alarm had been going off for almost forty five minutes – and he was really running late.

In his haste to get up, of course, he managed to get even more tangled in the covers before finally freeing himself. And the last bit of entanglement led to stubbing his toe against the end of the bed.

"Ow."

Muttering some creative curses, in several languages, Neal limped toward the kitchen. He laid the coarse-ground Italian roast coffee and the French press out, started the water heating, and continued on toward the bathroom.

_It didn't even make sense. He hadn't been out late, had only consumed one glass of wine – a normal-size glass, not a stressed-Mozzie-size glass. And after four years of early morning roll calls in prison, he didn't often sleep in…_

Some days it wouldn't have even mattered too much. If there were no active cases, he generally wasn't expected at the FBI offices until nine o'clock. Today, of course, there  _was_  an active case, with an undercover operation coming up later in the day – and a briefing in just over an hour.

He could make it, but it would be tight.

Fortunately, June had an excellent water heater, and the shower heated up quickly. He stepped underneath the spray, making the decision to just freshen up and not wash his hair. That would be fine for today. But with so many things running through his mind, he wasn't really paying attention when he reached for the loofah, and it slipped through his fingers. He bent down to pick it up…

"Ow."

It turned out that the burnished nickel shower control was  _hard_ , especially when it impacted with one's head. Fortunately, he'd hit the back of his head, so there wouldn't be a visible bruise or lump to have to explain.

But yeah, definitely tender, he decided, as he gingerly ran his fingers over the spot. No blood though, which was good.

He finished the shower with no more mishaps, dried off quickly, and wrapped the towel around his waist. Next step, a shave. His cover today required a clean-shaven look – not his favorite, but this should be the last need for Sebastion Couris to suit up. He adjusted the setting on the electric razor, slid the switch to the on position…

_Bzzzt… crackle… POP!_

It was almost like pouring milk over the crispy rice breakfast cereal – except that breakfast didn't normally come accompanied by sparks from the electric outlet. He slid the switch off again and carefully unplugged the unit.

_Damn – the razor wasn't even that old!_

Ruing yet another delay on a day that had definitely  _not_  started out well, Neal crouched down and rummaged in the cabinet under the sink. He finally found what he was looking for – a package of disposable razors, left behind when Peter had been a houseguest there during the jade elephant case. Neal had somehow missed them when he'd packed up Peter's things to  _encourage_  the agent to move to the hotel. And Peter had never asked about them, so Neal had stuffed the package in a hidden corner and not thought about them since.

Plastic razor in hand, he stood up – carefully, making sure his head was well clear of any obstacles. He had, unfortunately, remembered to pack the shaving cream, so he lathered up some soap, and covered his face.

"Ow."

The soap lather turned a sickeningly pink color as the blood from the nick along his jawbone mixed in. It didn't appear that the cut was immediately life-threatening – though the soap was making it sting like hell – so he continued shaving, slowing down just a little.

By the time he leaned over the sink and rinsed off any remaining soap, he was happy to note that there was only the one small nick. He stuck a piece of toilet paper on the cut to staunch the blood flow, ran a comb through his still sleep-tousled locks, and then headed back out to the kitchen.

The kettle was whistling, steam escaping from the spout, as he turned the stove burner off. He filled the press with the coffee grounds, poured in the water, then used one hand to set the kettle back on the stove while he attached the press top with the other. He pushed the lever down…

"Ow"

Apparently, he should have paid a little more attention to what he was doing, and gotten the top on straight. And damn, that hurt as the hot liquid splashed over his uncovered chest.

Some cold water eased the pain, and he was relatively sure that there wouldn't be any scarring.

_But what was going on with this day?_

He was just fixing the lid on the press when his cell phone rang with a text message. It was charging on top of the nearby cabinet and he stepped closer to see the display.

_Ah, Stanley Arbuckle – Mozzie's latest alias._

Neal poured the now-pressed coffee into a mug and picked up the phone, which had now chimed indicating two more messages.

> _**STANLEY** _ _: Neal, have you seen your horoscope for today?_
> 
> _**STANLEY** _ _: This is not the best day for success, dear Aries._  
>  _Good luck does not adequately describe what you need right now._  
>  _You could do with the services of a superhero called "Miracle Man."_  
>  _Destiny awaits you with a sledgehammer today. Everything is going_  
>  _wrong and nothing is going to fix it. The stars foretell of woe, misery,_  
>  _despair and false-hope. Every day is a winding road, they say, and today,  
> _ _your road is leading you to a 1 out of 10 day. Stay in bed, and the road  
> _ _tomorrow may lead to a better destination._
> 
> _**STANLEY** _ _: This is serious. Go back to bed and stay there!_

Neal just shook his head as he unplugged the phone from the charger and set it with his wallet and keys. Mozzie rarely believed in horoscopes when they predicted  _good_  things – only when the forecast was dire. Better conspiracies that way, he guessed. And while it was true that this day had not started out as well as he would have liked, there was certainly no reason to panic, especially not over a horoscope – because really, the daily forecasts were just a con, meant to draw in the gullible.

Besides, he had a con of his own to run today. Peter, of course, would insist on calling it a sting. A rose by any other name…

And con or sting, he still got a thrill out of the successful execution.

* * *

_8:23AM_

_Damn, damn, damn…_

He'd lucked out and the elevator car was almost empty. That let him nonchalantly occupy the far corner, which kept his right hip hidden from view.

And there was only one other person left when the doors opened on the twenty-first floor, so he was able to slide out without undue notice.

The back hallway was also clear, allowing Neal to get to the men's room unnoticed. Unfortunately, one of the stalls was occupied, but maybe he could take care of things before…

No such luck, as the stall door opened and Jones stepped out, his eyes immediately locking onto what Neal was doing.

"Caffrey, what the hell?"

Neal sighed and returned his attention to trying to scrub off whatever it was that he'd gotten on his pants. "I'm thinking grape jelly," he said, trying to keep his tone light, as opposed to totally annoyed. "Though congealed grape juice is also a possibility."

"What, you sat on your breakfast?"

Neal only spared the agent a quick glare in the mirror. "Funny. And no, there was something on the seat of the cab."

Jones was snickering. "And now it's on  _your_  seat."

"You're a real comedian, Jones."

Jones just laughed louder. "You know we have the case briefing in, like, five minutes."

"Yes, I'm very aware of that, thank you." Neal twisted, trying to get a better angle on the offending stickiness. "It's not in a very convenient place to see."

"Yeah, you're still missing a spot."

"Gee, thanks. And it's not like there's anything important going on today."

Jones grinned and stepped up, reaching for the wet paper towel. "I'll get it," he said, leaning over. "You just better never tell anyone I was cleaning your ass."

Neal started to assure the agent that the tale would  _never_  be told by his lips – but it was too late. The door opened, and Diana stuck her head in.

"Caffrey, you are here. No one had seen you and Peter was wondering…" Her voice trailed off and she stepped all the way into the room, eyes wide at the sight in front of her. "Do I even want to know what the two of you are doing?"

Neal tried to glare at her, but he had a feeling the impact was reduced by the fact that Jones was laughing again even as he continued to clean the back of Neal's pants. "There was something sticky on the cab seat."

Diana was laughing now too. "Oh, this is too good."

Neal gave the glare another try. "You do know this is the  _men's_  room, right? As in no women allowed?"  _Because really, this would have been humiliating enough with just_ _one_   _agent involved_.

"And who's going to throw me out – you?" she challenged.

_Well, he couldn't really even do that on a_ _good_ _day, much less the 1 out of 10 day he was having, Neal acknowledged to himself_. "Maybe you could tell Peter we'll be right there."

"Yeah, I'll tell him," Diana said, turning for the door. "As soon as you get your butt cleaned…"

The door swung shut behind her retreating form, and Neal just let his head drop. "I'm never going to live this down."

Jones straightened up, still grinning. "Probably not. But I think all the sticky stuff is gone. Of course, it's all wet back here, looks like you…"

"Yes, thank you," Neal said quickly, cutting off the rest of the description. He could imagine what it looked like.  _Too bad he didn't have a pants drawer, kind of like his tie drawer…_

Jones laughed – again – and tossed the paper towels in the trash. "Come on, I'll walk behind you, give you some cover."

It was still humiliating, but Neal appreciated the gesture. "Thanks, Jones."

The agent gestured toward the door, and Neal took just a moment to assure himself that the rest of his cool, calm sophisticated demeanor was in place before he opened it. There was no one in sight, so he walked quickly toward his desk. Between his fedora, held carefully over his right hip, and Jones following him closely, he made it into the bullpen with no one seemingly the wiser to his predicament.

Taking the hat to the conference room would probably attract too much attention, so he tossed it on the desk and picked up a notepad. That would give him some cover on the way up the stairs. But when he reached for a pen…

"Ow."

He pulled his hand to his mouth, sucking at the injured digit. Looking down at the pen holder, it appeared that someone had borrowed his exacto knife – and returned it to the cup blade-up.

With the rest of the team already upstairs, Jones stepped to his desk and opened a drawer, extracting a bandage. Neal took it, and reassured himself that he didn't seem to be bleeding to death. He was also fairly sure that the finger wasn't going to fall off.

_Fine, it was only a small nick…_

Neal tried one more time for a pen, and succeeded without any further bloodshed. He rolled his eyes and glared at Jones, who was struggling not to break into laughter again. And then he headed for the stairs, the agent falling into step behind him.

The wet cloth seemed to grab at his leg as he climbed, and he was pretty sure it must be hugging his buttocks quite closely. But Jones had managed to stop snickering, and was staying very close to his right side, so he managed to get into the room without anyone else noticing anything.

Diana, of course, was sitting at the table, grinning as though she was the cat who had just swallowed the canary. But he was sure she was professional enough not to say anything in the meeting.

_Reasonably sure…_

Fortunately, Peter was busy at the front of the room with Ramona Tolliver, the curator of the museum involved in the case. He wasn't paying any attention as Neal and his shadow made their way to the other end of the table.

With a great feeling of relief, Neal dropped down into a chair, and then shifted to put most of his weight on his left side to allow for as much airflow as possible. With any luck, his pants would at least mostly dry before he had to get up again…

* * *

_10:42AM_

The briefing had seemingly gone on forever. Ramona Tolliver was apparently somewhat obsessive compulsive, and perhaps a bit anal retentive. She liked details, and more details, and repeated details.

The only good thing, in Neal's opinion, was that the passage of time had allowed his pants to – mostly – dry. Hopefully the dark charcoal color would hide any remaining traces of dampness from view.

If he waited until the others had cleared the conference room, it would be even better.

Finally, Peter handed out the final assignments in preparation for the afternoon sting and ended the meeting. He headed for his office and Ramona tottered after him, trying to balance on stiletto heels that she obviously wasn't used to.

The other agents filed out of the room, including Jones and Diana. They were both smirking a little, but at least neither of them  _said_  anything else about the pants. With the connecting door to Peter's office standing open, he was relieved at the silence.

_Not that he figured the topic was closed for good, of course…_

He finally got up and walked out. But just as he got to the first step, he heard his name called. He turned to find Peter and Ramona coming out of the office.

"Ms. Tolliver just had one more question, Neal," Peter said.

Personally, Neal thought he'd answered way more than enough questions from her already, but he plastered on his most charming smile. "Of course."

"I just want to ensure that you understand the value of the piece we're hoping to recover from Marcom. It's an original Degas, and if it's damaged…"

"Ms. Tolliver, I assure you, I do know what a Degas is worth," Neal replied, ignoring the face Peter was making behind her. "I will take the utmost care with it." He started down the steps.

"Yes, that's so good to hear. I just don't know what we'd do…"

The next few moments were a little blurry for Neal. He heard Ramona speaking, and then suddenly a fairly large and solid mass struck him in the back. The unexpected hit knocked him off balance and he went tumbling.

"Ow."

The next thing he was aware of was lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Peter was helping Ramona Tolliver up; he was at least marginally more comfortable once her body was no longer pinning his. And there were agents gathered around him, voices asking if he was all right.

He took a moment to assess things before answering. His arms and hands moved, he could wiggle his toes…

"I'm fine," he managed to say, somewhat shakily. And then, with a bit of assistance, he was able to sit up, though he didn't recall the bullpen moving like this before.

_Maybe he should have taken Mozzie seriously and stayed in bed after all…_

* * *

_11:30AM_

Despite Neal's reassurances that, following his rather inglorious descent down the stairs, he was fine, Peter still insisted on a trip to the emergency room.

The doctor affirmed that the bruises on his chest were the only apparent injury – except to his wounded pride, of course. But they appeared to be mostly shallow, surface bruises – and, actually, mingled quite colorfully with the slightly reddened skin from his earlier coffee mishap. He walked out of the ER with a prescription for pain medication, and a glorious "I told you so" moment to use with Peter at some later, opportune time.

Fortunately, he guessed, it turned out that he had broken Ramona's tumble, by kindly letting her fall totally on top of him. So he was the only casualty.

Well, the only  _human_  casualty in any event. Apparently one of Ramona's stiletto heels had been broken, and Neal had watched with some grim satisfaction as Peter snapped the other heel off so that she wasn't dealing with a six inch difference in height from leg to leg.

And his suit was the other casualty. When he slid into Agent DiNaldo – and it was so  _totally_  not his fault – the cup of coffee she had just gotten from the break area spilled all over him. At least the suit protected him that time from any burns. Plus, it was the perfect excuse to insist that Peter drive him home after leaving the ER so that he could change. Scratch any lingering fears about grape jelly/juice/whatever stains still showing on his pants. Plus, his underwear had never quite fully dried. Fresh,  _dry_  underwear was a wonderful thing.

Neal successfully held Peter off when the agent insisted he take one of the pain pills. They'd already determined that he could still make the undercover meeting and, not knowing how the medication would affect him, he didn't want his reflexes – mental or physical – impacted in any way. Marcom wasn't known to be violent, and would never be mistaken for the brightest bulb, but no sense taking chances. Besides, the pain wasn't that bad – yet.

_Certainly nothing like that time in Geneva…_

He didn't mention that part to Peter.

* * *

_1:30PM_

The meet and take-down went as planned – more or less.

The 'more' part came first. Marcom showed up on time, as fidgety as he had been in the preliminary meeting. But 'Sebastian' was unruffled, and guided the conversation toward what the other man carried in a large portfolio case – which he had apparently brought on the subway.

_Yeah, that was subtle…_

But Neal played his part of being a wealthy oilman who wasn't overly concerned with the provenance of any artwork that he might collect. And he had a briefcase full of FBI cash to back up his story. He flashed the money, was shown the painting, and authenticated it.

That's when the 'less' part came in.

Marcom panicked when the agents burst into the room, weapons drawn, and lunged for the painting. Neal moved to protect it – which he would have done anyway, even without Ramona's admonition; it was a  _Degas_ , after all. He managed to pull the painting away from Marcom's desperate grab, but in doing so, the other man's body shoved him, hard, against a stack of crates in the warehouse.

"Ow."

The nail that protruded from the crate – the  _only_  protruding nail Neal could see in the whole area, once he un-impaled himself – managed to sink well over an inch into his shoulder. So, he got his second trip to the emergency room that day. The wound was cleaned, doused with antiseptic, and bandaged. He got a tetanus booster, just in case, plus a shot of penicillin. And he got a second prescription, this one for antibiotics.

* * *

_4:38PM_

Peter agreed that reports could wait until Monday. Marcom was safely locked up, and the agent had dinner plans with Elizabeth.

And so Neal found himself dropped off on the curb outside of June's house by the probie Peter had sent to shepherd him through the hospital visit. He made his way inside and then slowly,  _very_  carefully up the stairs. Honestly, he couldn't remember a day –  _ever_  – where so many things had gone wrong. It  _was_  Friday, but not even the thirteenth of the month…

_That Alexander kid in the book about the horrible, terrible day had absolutely nothing on him today!_

He made it to his apartment, and inside, with no incidents. Closing the door, he leaned back against it, eyes closed, thinking. He should probably take one of the prescribed pain pills; after the afternoon's activity, he was definitely feeling the bruises. But the label undoubtedly said not to drink alcohol along with the medication, and what he really,  _really_  wanted right now was a nice, stiff drink.

And if he had a drink first, and  _then_  took the pill, that wasn't really taking them together, right?

He should probably get both of the day's suits ready for the dry cleaner first. The first one needed cleaning. The second needed some blood cleaned off, as well as a hole repaired. At least he'd managed to pull himself straight off of the nail, so it wasn't a  _large_  hole.

Neal sighed, opened his eyes, and wearily pushed away from the door…

And that's when he saw it.

There was a package sitting on his kitchen table. He walked a little closer and could see his name and address written on the front, but no information on the sender. It looked like a courier tag in one corner, so it hadn't come through the mail.

He kind of wished June was home, or that the housekeeper had still been there, so he could ask about the delivery – couldn't be too careful, especially the way today was going. But Shirley had been leaving early for a weekend upstate with her son, and June had mentioned a dinner engagement, so he was alone in the house.

_Probably better in case it exploded or something…_

It wasn't a large box, by any means, and when he finally picked it up there wasn't much weight to it. He shook it gently, but nothing rattled, and he couldn't hear a ticking timer or anything. That part was probably cliché, but he couldn't be too careful, not today.

Neal finally set his hat down on the table and opened the tape on one end of the wrapping. The inner box slid out along with two pieces of paper. The first was a receipt of some sort from a jewelry shop, detailing the work of setting a blue sapphire…

His hands started to shake and he set the receipt down, reaching for the box. The top seemed to be permanently pressed in place, but he finally got it off and pulled back the cotton packing.

_He'd recognize that stone anywhere. The last time he'd seen it, it had been set in a delicate gold filigree cluster, worn on a chain around his mother's neck…_

Now, he was looking at a pendant, definitely more masculine in design. There was a silver disc, with a gold triangle laid over the top at an angle. The sparkling blue stone was centered on top, with a gold chain finishing the piece.

He was actually holding his breath as he reached for the other piece of paper, and he recognized the handwriting that had put his name on the front of the folded page.

_Ellen…_

Her loss hit him again, and he dropped onto the closest chair. It was a moment before he could open the note and begin to read.

> _Neal –_
> 
> _I remember how you always loved this sapphire when your mom wore it._  
>  _She gave me the necklace in St. Louis, the last time I saw her before we_  
>  _were moved to different parts of the country. Now it's time to pass the_  
>  _stone on to you. My friend Sully has designed a setting I hope you'll like.  
> _ _And since I don't know when I'll be moving on, he's agreed to hang onto  
> _ _the piece and send it on your special day._
> 
> _Happy Birthday, Neal. My love always._
> 
> _Ellen_

He took a deep breath and looked at the pendant again. It was a precious gift from two women who had loved him, each in her own way. One, he would never see again. The other he hadn't seen for a decade and a half, and he had no idea where she was.

_Maybe it was time to try sending a letter through the Marshals…_

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He slipped the chain over his head, letting the pendant fall under his shirt as he got to his feet.

He was running the possibilities of who the visitor might be as he crossed the room. Mozzie was at some super-top-secret gathering called to discuss the alien invasion purported to be happening in mid-America even now; Neal had, politely, declined the invitation to attend with him. Peter and June had other plans. He couldn't think of anyone else who was in town that he'd expect to drop by.

_And he didn't think anyone else knew, or cared, what day it was…_

He pulled the door open. "Peter!"

"Oh, good, you're here."

Neal stepped back to let the agent in. "You had to come in person to find out? I thought you had an app for that."

"Funny," Peter said. "Nope, came to get you."

"For what? You've already dragged me to the ER twice today."

Peter smiled – the smile that Neal never  _quite_  trusted – and pulled something out of his pocket. "No hospital, but you do have plans for tonight."

"Yeah, I do," Neal agreed, though he figured he and Peter were, once again, using the same words to talk about different things. "I  _plan_  to have a good, stiff drink, take a pain pill, and just relax."

Peter pulled some tickets out of an envelope. "This is much better."

"And what might  _this_  be?"

"Got tickets to the Rangers game!"

Neal stared at him. "Hockey?"

Peter nodded enthusiastically. "Yup, playing the Senators. We're heading to the Garden!"

"I thought you had plans with Elizabeth."

"An event came up. So it's you and me."

"Yeah, not much of a hockey fan…"

"It's the experience that counts."

"Right. It's cold, people drink too much and get obnoxious…"

"You're going," Peter said, stepping in to put an arm over Neal's shoulder – fortunately,  _not_  the one with the open wound.

"Peter…"

"Come on," the older man said, guiding him toward the door. "If we hurry we'll have time to grab dinner before the faceoff. I think you'll even like this one restaurant near the Garden…"

* * *

_5:52PM_

They parked in a ramp not far from Madison Square Garden. Peter kept up some happy chatter about the intricacies of hockey that, quite frankly, Neal almost totally tuned out. He really couldn't figure out why the older man was dragging him along like this. But sometimes it was pretty difficult to argue with Peter.

And maybe, after Ellen's letter, it was better not to sit at home alone.

Peter pointed out a French restaurant across the street, and Neal's spirits rose a little. At least it wasn't a sports bar, and maybe he really  _would_  like it. A good meal would make it slightly easier to handle the hockey game later.

They crossed the street and Neal followed Peter inside. But instead of stopping at the host station, Peter kept right on walking toward the back.

_Clue #1 that something was up…_

Peter opened the door to a back room, ushering Neal inside ahead of him.

"Surprise!"

"Happy Birthday!"

And he was, indeed, surprised, Neal decided, as he stood frozen in the doorway. Elizabeth was there, of course. So was June, and her granddaughter, Cindy. Jones and Diana were there, and it seemed like many of the others from the Harvard Crew were as well.

Someone pressed a wine glass into his hand as Neal finally stepped all the way into the room. He turned to look at Peter, who was still standing next to him, grinning. "How did you…"

"We were always planning a birthday dinner," the agent admitted. "Just small, you, me, El, June. But after the day you had, I thought maybe something bigger would be good. So I made a few calls."

Neal just nodded numbly.  _He hadn't even told Peter about all the little things that had happened before work…_

"Fortunately, this restaurant is one of my top catering choices," Elizabeth said as she joined them. "Their back room was open, and they were able to put together a selection of appetizers. We can order dinner from the menu later."

Neal nodded again, and then turned to face Peter. "So the whole hockey game thing was just a con?"

Peter grinned and reached in his pocket for the envelope. "Well, there  _are_  tickets," he said handing it over.

Neal pulled out the contents, his eyes widening. "These are for the special exhibit at the Cloisters tomorrow."

"Yup. Of course, if you had your heart set on the Rangers game we can walk over and see if there are any scalpers outside…"

"No, that's fine," Neal hurried to say. "I'll take the Cloisters."

Peter grinned. "Figured you might. Now come on, there's all sorts of that fancy stuff you like."

Neal watched as Peter took his wife's arm and they headed for the table with food. Definitely not the way he thought he'd be spending the night.

But definitely not bad either.

He started to move, and felt the pendant brush against his chest. And he paused a moment, his hand covering the spot. The stone was a connection to Ellen, and to his mother, and utterly precious.

This gathering of friends was pretty special too. Even with all of the things that had gone wrong that day, maybe it was good he hadn't stayed in bed.

Maybe he'd tell Mozzie the horoscope was way off base.

_And maybe his horrible, terrible, no good day had turned out to not be so bad after all._

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Happy Birthday to Matt Bomer – may he continue to bring Neal Caffrey to life for many seasons to come!


End file.
